


Taming the tide

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Apologies, Blood Drinking, Communication, Cutting, Fucking As In The Word I Don't Get Paid For, Issues up in the head, M/M, Non-Erotic Bondage, Non-Explicit Sex, Tenderness and Gratitude, Unsoundness Of Mind, Yeah That's The Tag, cock touching, emotional distress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26979976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: "No," Tim says, staring point blank at him. He shouldn't have apologized. He should've scared him even more. "No. We are never doing it again."
Relationships: Ginger Fish/Tim Sköld
Kudos: 6





	Taming the tide

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to this thing: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370479
> 
> The prequel is not a required reading, but this part is closely tied to it, so. 
> 
> Sadly, it is not as violent as I wanted it to be, it's actually tender and romantic. Still enjoyable, tho. I think. 
> 
> English is not my native language, I claim no rights, even the fingers I used to write this are public property.

***

The need to apologize feels urgent. Burning.

And yet, he doesn't, because how the fuck do you apologize for something like this?

He's done that, he has tried, but everything he said left his... _victims_ unsatisfied somehow. He tried apologizing. They hanged up. Closed the door in his face. Almost spat in it.

So it's been days - four, to be precise - but Tim hasn't yet talked to him. Hasn't had a word with him. He still has no words.

Also - also he needs to have a word with Brian. Okay, maybe he does not, at least, he doesn't _feel_ the need to do it and he doesn't fucking want to do it, but maybe he should, he _might_ need it, might need his help, and it is advisable, it is good tone to inform people of your bullshit in advance, people whose job it is to deal with your bullshit, people who're in for a big surprise with their brand new beloved _muse_ that apparently likes earning himself criminal fucking charges. And has been at it for years. And has never mentioned them.

And is afraid.

Of course, he is fucking afraid. He must admit it. More than that. He's terrified. Terrified that the nightmares would come true. That they already have.

And Ginger...

Ginger looks so obviously _injured_ it's not just Tim's regular paranoia anymore. That paranoia he's developed out of trying to exercise the self-control he clearly still lacks. The self-control that failed him, that led to Ginger walking around looking _maimed_ , his every movement awkward, weird, cautious, his paths avoiding other people and, most of all, Tim himself.

Ginger moves in such a way it practically screams that something's wrong, and TIM IS A PSYCHO HE SLICED ME WITH A KNIFE is written all over him. And the font is so big Tim's sure, one hundred percent sure that somebody will notice right about now, now, now, somebody will ask him if something's wrong and here you go, Tim, your judge, your cell, your sentence.

And then somebody does, somebody actually asks him something, asks about his bizarre limping, and Tim freezes, overhearing it, more so than when he drowned in the ocean of Ginger's blood, because back then - he thinks now, still fucking does, naive motherfucker - he could stop, the future was something his actions could affect, and now, when Ginger shrugs and smiles, weak and strange, so fucking strange and telling, betraying everything, now Tim can't do a thing, it is just fate, kismet after this, and what has been foretold by stars is that after Ginger shrugs and smiles that somebody who asked him will go OH DID THAT SELF-IMPORTANT SWEDISH PSYCHO SLICE YOU WITH A KNIFE and everybody else, the _crowd_ , would turn their heads and see how Ginger nods, confirming everything, and then...

Then nothing like that happens.

What happens is completely different, because Ginger smiles and shrugs, and that somebody who asked him goes _what, did you lose another fight with Brian's mic_ , and Ginger smiles again and laughs and mutters something, neither nodding, nor shaking his head, and the person he's chatting goes on, somebody else joining in, and then it's Ginger's propensity to get hit and hospitalized that is discussed, not Tim's dark, bloody secrets.

His secrets that aren't secrets anymore. That have been fucking _shared_. That make him into this feeble, puny creature, into this pathetic thing, into a smudge of crimson liquid that stains the face of the earth and still, two, three, four days later cannot accept what it has soiled, that's fucking silent, that is afraid.

What's even worse - he sees that Ginger is afraid of him.

Two more days pass.

Two more days pass, and it is horrible, unbearable to see the fear, but seeing concern and kindness...

"I need to talk to you," Tim says.

Day seven. There is no fucking rest.

Ginger starts a little, turning to him, and people walk by them, people flow by. They're in some big, this-is-where-you-go-look-for-your-bandmate behind the stage room.

"Oh," Ginger says, attempting to put things he's holding in his hands somewhere. "Okay. Sure. What do y---"

Tim shakes his head, cutting him short.

"Not now."

Of course, it is not now. He barely managed to form the sentence in a way that makes the conversation his responsibility. He needs time. Space. He needs to postpone it longer, ever longer.

"Later. Okay? After the show. If you don't have to go som---"

"Uh," Ginger breathes out, and Tim trails off. GET AWAY FROM ME YOU MANIAC. "No, I'm... Okay. Alright. Where do y---"

"Uh," Tim says as well. Rakes his fingers through his hair. Sticky. Probably messed up now. He sighs. "Like... Fuck, donno, just come to my room, okay?"

"Oh," Ginger responds. Swallows. Hesitates.

Scared.

He's fucking scared of him.

"Shit," Tim says. Figures. Just come to my room, right. Fuck. "Fuck, I jus---"

"Okay," Ginger says. "I'll come. But like... when? I mean, I don't know when you'll be the---"

"Oh," Tim exhales. "Oh."

It only now begins to dawn on him that he'll actually have to talk to him. To say the words. To apologize. To fucking _explain._

"I'll be there," Tim says. "I don't have any plans. I'll just go straight to my room, okay? So..."

"Ah," Ginger says. "Okay. Okay. Yeah."

All fucking set.

"Do you want to talk about..." Ginger says, looking up at him. "Uh... About the... the blood thing?"

The _blood thing._ Fuck.

It is all set and Ginger's there, in his room, he's come, but is he going to fucking open up, will his fucking mouth open?

Tim glares at him, shifts and sighs, leans on the table, finds his package...

"Yeah."

And seeing concern and kindness is pure nonsense, seeing it makes his head hurt, explode, yet it isn't utterances that burst out, it's anxious, neurotic movement.

Flip, count, brush against the filters, pull one out and tuck it back in, drag the finger pad over the carton rim and say _loo_ \---

"Look, I'm..." Ginger says. "I'm really sorry that I've done that. I shouldn't have, you know? Like, getting in your room and..."

He's sitting on his bed, right in the middle of its edge, as if his purpose is to perfectly divide line segments.

"I mean, I didn't know that you'd..." he continues. "Fuck, I just wanted to help, but that's no excuse, I get it, I'm really so---"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tim cuts him short.

Hearing the moron speak makes him... Yeah. It detonates him.

"I fucking planned to beg you not to press charges against me and you're saying you're sorry?" Tim almost shouts. "Are you insane?"

"I uh..." Ginger says, he almost whispers, slouching. "No, I'm just..."

"Shut up," Tim shakes his head. "God, shut up."

Fuck, do they need to smoke.

They smoke.

Tim finds beer, and they drink from the same bottle or, rather, take one sip each for the psychological effect, they smoke and turn on the TV, and something dumb, some movie, of which neither of them understands a word, fills the room with sounds.

It looks like a thriller.

And Ginger looks concerned and kind, and seeing it and hearing what he's said, still hearing what he's said, it is unbearable, but Tim - Tim suddenly starts spilling it all out, as if he's in some therapeutic Santa Claus's lap and the understanding fucker will make all his problems go away.

"It's gotten worse, you know," he explains. "Over the years. In the beginning... In the beginning it was even... cool?"

They're sitting on his bed side by side, their shoulders touching.

And Ginger nods after each phrase of his.

"I guess I am a fucking dumbass, but yeah. Felt kind of cool. Interesting. Like oh, I have this weird quirk and drinking blood makes me... Like, not hard. Not really. There was just this... surge of emotions, sensations that felt... powerful? Donno. Don't remember anymore. It became something else too soon. And like... I don't even think it is about blood. It's more about... cutting. About... Fuck, like being the blade that cuts the butter. Seeing how it yields."

Ginger shifts almost imperceptibly next to him, and Tim realizes his whole body's tense. A sudden shudder hits him. Tim suppresses his response.

Ginger might be put off by being compared to fucking dairy products, but that's exactly how he felt under Tim's hands.

It's better not to dwell on it.

"And then it's just gotten worse and worse," he continues. "And I got... angry. More and more so. When it happened. And fuck, did it happen. Like, do you have any idea how often people get fucking cut? Every fucking day. And I got really, really pissed off. And you know, people also... Fuck, I guess that comes with the job, but people are fucking into it. At least they say they are. Up to a fucking point."

He chuckles, low, maybe even menacing.

Ginger's warm.

"And they provoke you. It's either _oh, sexy_ , dirty, kinky, all that shit or there is a whole other branch of assholes who're out to save you from yourself. To bond with you like that and claim you. Cure you. _Domesticate_ you. Fucking dumbasses. You tell them it isn't fucking funny, pleasant, cute, whatever, and they don't get it, never fucking do, it's only when you fucking run after them down the stairs with a knife and jump them on the first floor near the front door... It's only then when it is suddenly not cool. I fucking wonder why."

"And..." Ginger says. There're streeks of greenish light from the TV on his face. "Have you?"

Tim looks at him for a while, breathing.

"Have I run after people down the stairs with a knife?" he asks.

The green gives way to pink. Then purple.

"Y-yeah."

"Yeah. And not just that."

Tim spits it out, turns away from him, studies their boots.

"It's just... You see, I'm Brian's newest concubine and he is madly in love with me, that's why he doesn't know. Nobody knows. Don't you have any restraining orders issued against you, dear? You know. He didn't ask."

Ginger nods again, then swallows, then eyes him. Not nervous, just... encouraging.

Fucking Father Christmas.

"And I..." Tim goes on. "I fucking tried to get it under control. I mean, I don't even fuck anybody who's in the least... _alternative_. Don't even hang out with them. It's just baby shower going chicks and gym going jocks who have no idea who I am for me. Just missionary. Nothing... unorthodox. Because otherwise... It's like a fucking plague. Sex, blood and rock&roll. Fuck. Fuck it. I just never go anywhere near it. Anywhere near people who aren't properly appalled by it. Like, better if they fucking faint at the very sight. At the very mention. Fuck. And I fucking tried and it was... It was okay. It really was and then you..."

Ginger's lips part, so he hurries to continue.

"And I got so fucking pissed off and..."

"It's okay."

No help.

"It isn't."

"It's really no---"

"It's really not what? Fuck. Fuck you. I got fucking pissed off and then I sliced you, I fucking slashed your thighs and fuck knows what else, I don't remember, okay? Blacked the fuck out and you still limp and now it's all fine? You are still sore, aren't you? Show me."

"I uh..."

"Show me."

Tim almost yanks his jeans down on his own, while Ginger fumbles with the belt, just grabs and pulls and then...

"Fuck."

He touches him - the _evidence_ \- and his whole face quirks, his face feels like those wounds must feel.

"Fuck, Ginger."

"It's alri... I mean... I know what to do, okay? It's not... Nothing's gonna happpen. It's---"

"You cut yourself."

There aren't any other scars. Apart from those future ones that he's still touching.

"I uh..." Ginger says, shifting just a little. "Yeah. I..."

He shifts a bit away from him, hand on the belt again, and Tim stops. Lets go. Makes himself let go.

The lacerations aren't fresh, it's been a fucking week, but they are red and dark and a bit scaly, rough, and it's better not to dwell on that either.

Ginger pulls up his jeans, zips them up.

"Not often," he continues. "Like, I don't... I don't punish myself for anything, it's not like that, it isn't self-harm... I mean, it is, but, like... I used to do it when I was a teenager to, donno, to feel... real? If that makes any sense. I didn't cut a lot, like, one or two cuts, just to see them, to feel the sting, you know?"

Now it's Tim's turn to nod, and he does, he has heard many confessions just like this one, he has heard them all.

"But that was long ago," Ginger goes on. "And then I just... Met some people. Who drink blood. It isn't... It's not erotic, like, it's not about sex. Just blood. Those people, they need blood. And I... It felt nice. To feed them. It's like... Donno, like volunteering? I sometimes helped at a homeless shelter, so... It just feels similar. And... It's nice. They just need blood and you feel... needed, they don't, don't care about... about how you look and... Fuck. I'm, I'm really sorry, I wasn't trying to... to get you to like me or proposition you..."

"Jesus," Tim exhales, shakes his head. "Shut up, huh? Fuck. You really listened to my bullshit, didn't you? _Proposition_. I know you weren't trying to get in my pants in there. And sorry I fucking got in yours. Shit. You shouldn't have listened to a word I said. I just got pissed off, okay? It was... It was all about me, okay? All of it. Just fucking projecting and... Sorry. Okay? _I_ am sorry."

They drink the beer.

They drink the beer and Ginger takes most sips, while Tim is smoking, while Tim is wondering, if he's managed to apologize enough, to apologize at all, if Ginger even heard him, Ginger and his quiet _okay_ and his supportive face and his fucking willingness to swallow his nonsense he was spewing.

Ginger finishes the bottle and Tim decides to give it another try.

"Look, I uh..." he finally says. "I'm sorry. For what I've done to you. For what I've said too. For everything, okay? I don't want there to be... _bad blood_ between us." Ginger smiles, faint. "I just hope you'll forgive me and we'll put the whole... incident behind us and---"

"But..." Ginger says, cutting him short with his almost absent voice. "I uh... Don't you..."

"What?"

"Don't you still need..." Ginger says, stuttering on his own. "I mean, we could... We could do it again, if you wa---"

Tim knocks off the bottle, and it rolls across the floor. The floor, Tim realizes, he's standing on, looming over Ginger.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"

He says the words, which, he also realizes, he shouts.

"Fuck, Ginger. Fuck."

He rakes his fingers through his hair, trying to calm down.

"Sorry. But... Are you? Are you fucking kidding me? Why would you---"

"I'm..." Ginger starts. Ginger, who, Tim clearly sees, is - and from now on will always be - scared of him. "I'm not... I just mean, you still need it, don't you? The blood. Even if... If nobody... provokes you. You still... think about it."

And then Tim feels pinned. Caught. Tim, for once in his life, feels understood, but that's not a pleasant feeling.

"I uh..." he mutters, shifting on his feet. "Maybe. So what?"

It's just all those times, all those times he described to Ginger in his shitstorm of accusations, with those other people who never fucking listened, all those times what he tried to tell them was that he is not okay, he's sick or something, cursed, he has a problem, he's not alright, he is fucking _mental_ when it comes to blood, and they, the morons, didn't hear him, but Ginger does.

It dawns on him that he really does.

It also dawns on him that he is sick. He has a problem.

That he is fucking mental.

Ginger looks at him as if he is personally to blame for his damn condition.

"Sorry, I didn't..." he says. "I'm not trying to... I just... Do you? Do you think about it?"

Tim pshaws, sighs, grabs at his package.

"Yeah," he says, after smoke fills up his lungs. "Yes, I fucking do. Okay? And stop apologizing, it's not your fault. But... So what? What if I do? I'm..."

Mental.

"So how do you..." Ginger licks his lips. "How do you... manage? If you still want it."

And then Tim almost snaps. Tim almost barks out the word whose linguistic roots aren't familiar to him. The word the definition of which he clearly doesn't know.

"Not through self fucking control, obviously," he submits. "Don't have any. Fuck."

He wipes his mouth with his palm, he finishes the cigarette, he sits down - to feel Ginger's warm shoulder next to his.

"I don't know how I manage," he pleads guilty. "I just avoid it and when I start... _thinking_ about it on my own I do what all rock stars do? Drink and take drugs and go punch something, if somebody is not available."

Ginger is looking at him, half turned to him. Ginger is waiting for him to surrender more.

"I go punch something and when I hurt myself, which I fucking do, I lick up my own blood," he forces out. "Okay? That's how I manage."

 _Somebody_ is right there, next to him, and fuck, does he feel like punching.

Fucking, fucking kindness and concern.

"That's not... not very healthy," Ginger says.

And Tim almost thanks all gods in heaven that he does not physically console him.

"Yeah, well, neither am I, so?"

Even though he clearly wants to, and his hand lingers in the air, close to Tim's forearm.

He smiles. Soft.

"You..." Ginger says. "Look, I don't think you're... you know, crazy. It's... It's just how some peo... just how you are. Okay? And I could fee... I could give you my... I mean, you need it. So... We could... We could make it safe and---"

"And how the fuck do you propose we do that? Use a blunt table-knife?"

A _butter_ fucking knife.

Ginger laughs, awkward. Way too soft.

"No, I uh..." he says. "We could... Maybe... Use rope."

Tim laughs too, laughs and shakes his head, and Ginger, whose warm, soft shoulder is touching his, Ginger should get away from him, as far away as possible.

"And who are we going to fucking tie up?" Tim asks, still laughing, and Ginger is afraid of him, of his outbursts, he really is, but he's concerned, he's kind, he isn't afraid of him enough.

"No," Tim says, staring point blank at him. He shouldn't have apologized. He should've scared him even more. "No. We are never doing it again."

***

When they do it for the third time, it is also at Ginger's house.

It is at Ginger's house the second time, because Tim says that if they are doing it, which they fucking shouldn't, it is better to do it at a hotel, where somebody might hear Ginger screaming when Tim gets to him despite the rope, not that their location helped him the first time, Tim says that, but the tour runs out before he actually agrees that they are doing it, before he understands he really wants it, the tour runs out and renting a room back at home just feels weird, so they end up at Ginger's house, they do it there, so that when shit goes wrong his neighbours would see a strange blonde blood covered man they've never met before trying to dispose of his mutilated body, so that they'd see him and call the cops, so that at least Tim would be locked away, which he most likely should be, seeing that he has agreed to do it, seeing that he's that insane.

When they do it for the third time, it is quite a few weeks after the second one and at Ginger's house, and Tim has visited Ginger's house repeatedly during these weeks, but for other, more benign reasons.

When they do it for the third time, Tim also stays dressed.

Ginger even puts more fabric on him, when he tries to ditch his clothes.

"You had bruises," Ginger informs him, pointing at his wrists. “From struggling, you know.”

This - this Tim remembers, the marks lasted for long enough, and he nods, he says _okay_ , he leaves the clothes on, because who knows why he even attempted taking them off, this shit isn’t erotic in any way, it’s not about sex, it’s just the last few weeks were and their interactions were erotic.

“Okay,” Tim says and nods, and gives Ginger both his hands, extends them, and lets him wrap some bandages around his forearms, lets him take care of him.

Fucking Wonderworker.

When they do it for the third time, Tim also tells Ginger not to untie him.

He shivers and his facial expression goes all wry, sour, when Ginger starts wrapping him with rope, denying him future movement, and Ginger notices his current one.

"Are you..." he starts, eyes worried. "Is everything okay?"

Tim shrugs, while he still can.

"Yeah, just..." he tries explaining. "I guess, my subconscious remembered the experience in more detail. And didn't like it much."

"Oh," Ginger breathes out. "Do you wa---"

"Nah," Tim shakes his head. "We're doing it. Just, you know... Don't untie me. Under any circumstances. Just don't. Okay?"

When they do it for the third time, Ginger also swallows and nods, like he did the second time, that time, when he didn't do it, didn't untie him, and that's why there's the third time, that's why they are doing it.

When they do it for the third time, there, just like it was the second time, there are missing bits.

"I fucking bit you," Tim pants out, sweaty, heavy, adrenalized. "That time. I bit you."

His own voice sounds unfamiliar, it sounds as if he's scared, and something stains his mouth, his whole mouth is wet, his lips and chin, and he stares up at Ginger, shaking, and his eyes must be as wide as Ginger's are, and Ginger's shaking too, he's scared too, and blood is running down his forearm, blood is still trickling from the cut.

There's been a blackout.

"I uh..." Ginger says and puts his hand on his shoulder, Ginger physically consoles him. "You... Yeah."

"Fuck," Tim says. "Fuck, Ginger. Why didn't you te---"

"It's alright," Ginger interrupts him, soft, but firm, insistent, patient. Just like he himself is. "It wasn't... It wasn't bad."

"It fucking was," Tim says, angry, irritated, riled up, just like he himself is. "You... You leaned in and I was drinking and you held me, your hand, you put it on me, and I was drinking, I wanted more, I wouldn't stop and you tried to get away, you tried to push me onto the bed, you touched my head, you... I fucking bit you. I just didn't let you, didn't let you pull away, I fucking... fucking snarled and I bit you, and you... You cried out, and I still wouldn't let go, and you said _Tim_ , and I just---"

"It's okay," Ginger says. "It's fine. I uh... I stopped you."

Tim blinks.

There's sweat everywhere on his face and on his lashes, and he is panting, his whole body's tense, his whole body hurts and he is hot, he's burning, his chin and lips are stained with blood, with Ginger's sweet, honeyed blood that is still trickling, that is running down his forearm, his blood he's looking at.

"You fucking---"

He tried to push him, to wriggle out, he cried out and said _Tim_ , he was in pain, he said _please let go_ and Tim just snarled, gurgling, both blood and laughter, Tim bit him, and Ginger...

Ginger fucking hit him.

"You fucker."

Slammed the edge of his hand into his throat.

"You fucker," Tim says, and his voice is pumping loud in his ears, inside his head, his fucking head that's getting empty, eerie calm before the storm. "How did you even dare? You. Who the fuck are you? Fucking shit. You and your blood. Move. Get your pathetic ass here. I'll fucking show you who you hit, just come closer. You and your stupid wounds. Move, you fucker. Give me that cut. Move."

The fucker doesn't. Just like the second time.

"You shit," Tim says, and he is struggling. "Come here. Give me your fucking blood. You're fucking out to offer it to anybody anyway. Move. MOVE!"

The fucker doesn't.

"Not yet," he says instead, so soft and quiet, fucking tranquil, he runs his palm over Tim's shoulder as if his kindness is something anybody needs, as if he is something more than just a reservoir of blood. "I will, but later. You need to calm down first. Okay? And then I'll feed you."

"Fuck you," Tim says, and he is shouting, he's shouting, but he doesn't hear it, doesn't hear it anymore. "You'll do it now. _Feeding._ You aren't feeding anybody. Fucker. Give me the knife. Give it to me."

The fucker doesn't. The fucker who did just that the first time Tim had an encounter with him. The fucker who felt like goddamn butter under his hands.

"I can't do that," he says. "You told me not to."

"I FUCKING DIDN'T!" Tim says, and he is snarling, shouting, he's struggling, he wants to fucking choke the bastard, he will choke him, he'll fucking kill him now. "I told you to give it to me. Give me the knife, you shit. Give it to me. I'll fucking show you what I told you."

"Sorry," the bastard says, the fucking shit who's still alive, who tied him up, who claimed him, caught him, trapped him, the bastard whose blood he's looking at, he wants, whose blood is his, it's fucking his, the bastard's teasing him, that dumb, ugly, useless slut, the fucking bastard who dares to deny him.

"Let. Me. Go," Tim tells him.

Tim says that when they do it for the third time, just like he did before, and he does not remember that he told him not to, he shouts and he snarls, trying to get out, he struggles in the fucking ties, he screams and spews his bullshit.

Which he luckily doesn't remember too.

"Deeper," Tim says, when they do it for the third time. "More. That's not enough."

There'd been a blackout, and then he breathed, he couldn't breathe, he could no longer drink the blood he wanted, the blood he wants, now, fucking NOW, he calmed down, calmed down as best he could, he watched Ginger make the cut, the first, the shallow one, he saw him make another one, he saw his pain.

Sweet, honeyed pain.

"It's..." Ginger says, licks his lips. "It's too much. Painful."

 _Sorry_ , Tim thinks. Weirdly, sometimes he can.

 _Aren't you fucking sorry_ , Tim thinks.

"I don't give a crap," he says. "Cut."

Then Ginger - fucker - shakes his head.

But then he cuts himself, and Tim is staring, staring at the blade and at the blood, at drops that are appearing on his skin, that still aren't falling on his lips, the drops that are his, the drops he's staring at, the blade, the cut, the fucking thin, shallow, pathetic cut that the fucker's making.

The shaking, shivering, panicked bastard, the fucking self-harming coward.

"H-here," the coward says, leans in, closer to him, hand in the air above him. "You can drink."

"Fuck," Tim says, and it's a laugh. "You pathetic shit. Is that how you fed those _sanguinarians_ of yours? Those idiots who agreed to come near you. Touch you. Who were blind enough."

Ginger shivers, and it's not just because of Tim's bullshit that he does, it's Tim's vision that goes blurry, it's the whole picture that now tilts.

"What?" Tim asks, spitting Ginger's own blood out along with words. "You can't even cut yourself properly. _Painful_. I should've fucking shown you how it is done. I should just do it myself. You fucking suck, you know. Just give me the knife. Come on. I'll do it. You whiny shit. Give me the knife. Give it to me."

"FUCKING GIVE ME THE DAMN KNIFE!" Tim shouts some seconds later, just like he did the second time, the first time, just like he'll always do, he shouts, snarls and struggles, while Ginger's blood that's his trickles out of three pathetic cuts he can't stop looking at, Ginger's sweet, honeyed blood that is the only thing he smells, the only thing he wants, that is the only thing, that is everything there is.

There is blood and darkness, when they do it for the third time, and for the second, for the first, there is blood and darkness every time, that's all that always will be, just blood and rage, rage that fills him when he's denied, when he's being calmed down, cared for, there is fucking fever and that loud heartbeat that is pumping in his ears, there is just blood that runs, trickles, flows down his throat, the blood and cuts, the cuts he feels with his teeth, the cuts he tries biting into, the cuts he wants more of, the blood he fucking needs, the blood that is his everything, the blood he begs for.

He really begs, when they do it for the third time.

He cries and shakes, he's sore and heavy, sweaty, hot, he tries to bite into the cuts, but there is a hand that pulls his hair, there is a voice that tells him _no_ , that denies him in the darkness, he shouts there, in the nowhere, shouts, snarls and struggles in the fucking ties, spews out bullshit and makes threats, he talks, trying to trick the moron, he wants that knife, those cuts, that blood, he goes mad in there, but he's...

He's not the one who decides how much he's getting.

He is the one who begs.

When they do it for the third time, he cries and begs, he says _please, please, please_ , it's on repeat, the fucking blood, the sweet, honeyed blood is all he smells and sees and hears, he goes mad in there and at the end he hopes is not the end he's broken, he is begging, he is reduced.

"Okay," the voice tells him, the quiet, soft, tender voice says that really close to his ear, there is a hand that holds his head, that holds him, soothes him, that hand that promises him some relief. "Okay. You can have one more."

And then, after that, there's only darkness.

There's blood, the blood that finally fills his mouth, the blood he tastes and drinks and savours, the blood he begged for, and there is a hand that holds him and the voice, there're two voices, and one is moaning, he's moaning with his mouth full of blood, he's crying, he's breathless and he gasps, there're two hands, and one of them, another one of them, is touching him, right through his pants, right where he needs it, where he wanted it to be without knowing he did, he moans, trying to push his hips up, he shakes with his whole claimed body and he drinks the blood, the blood he's given, the blood that gets him there, takes him there.

Into the glowing darkness.

***

"Why did you stay?" Tim asks, looking at Ginger's tired face, at the black circles under his eyes and his messy hair on the pillow. "Back then. The first time."

They are in bed, and Tim is no longer thirsty, Tim has smoked, Tim still have bruises from the rope covering his whole body, Tim feels as if every bone of his was broken, Tim feels the taste of Ginger's blood on his tongue, still feels it, Tim feels like he has never felt before, Tim feels so fucking grateful.

"Oh," Ginger says and smiles. "I uh... I just... You passed out, you know. And I... Didn't know what to do. I just dragged you onto the bed and... The wounds. Dealt with them. And then... Look, I just... You started talking. In your sleep. Like, nightmares. And I thought... I didn't know what to do. If you were going to be okay. So..."

"Oh," Tim says too. He isn't thirsty, but his mouth's dry.

"I'm sorry," Ginger says. "I didn't... I just lay near you. Just... hugged you. Because you were... I was worried. I didn't... I didn't do anything, you know. Like... I didn't touch you or anything and---"

"Why?" Tim asks, this time he really asks. "Why didn't you? I mean, you said you liked me. Why the fuck... Why didn't you tell me? Like, why didn't you just offer me to fuck? I'm... I'm really asking."

Ginger laughs a bit. And closes his eyes. And turns away.

"I just..." he says, quiet, soft, whispering fucking moron. "Don't know. I just, I've seen how... I've seen the people you go out... The people you're with. And I uh... I don't. Don't look like... God. I just know that you don't. Don't like m---"

Tim laughs. A lot.

"You know wrong," he says. "Fuck, you're such an idiot. How did you even manage to get those keys? Jesus. You're a fucking dumbass. Fuck. Come here. Come fucking here."

It is after the second time they do it that Tim pulls Ginger closer too.

__________________________________________________________________


End file.
